Black Ghosts and Stained Memories
by The Underground Symphony
Summary: Jane thought about all the countless night he had stayed, lying awake, reminiscing on the moments…they remained locked up in his mental vault, right along with the countless emotions he refused to show...the memories of his forgotten family...


**I do not own The Mentalist or Owl City's "Vanilla Twilight"...or Owl City**

The cold darkness was still present in the room, even though it's been almost a year since Red John had made his sickly presence known.

The taunting red face was still glaring triumphantly down at him, giving off that red glow that never seemed to go away.

Patrick Jane was deep in thought tonight, mind racing through all his memories and thoughts, not missing one little detail that could help him catch Red John.

Red John: The man who decided to swoop his vulture-like claws in his life, and feed on the screams and pain of his beautiful, now battered, wife and his innocent, now victimized, child.

The radio was on at a low level, whispering the ongoing, pulsated beats of whatever new artist was in their 15 minutes of fame, with the occasional murmur of the DJ.

Jane laid back with his eyes closed, concentrating on the musing he had jumbled in his head. It was like a large disturbed game; he used bits and pieces to scrape together a puzzle piece that might remotely fit the larger puzzle in his mind.

"You are now listening to RDJN 1140. Up next we have a song by Owl City…"

The radio was just meant for a distraction, something to mellow out his mind when needed. His wife used to write short stories and novellas, which sometimes appeared in newsletters or online journals. His wife would play this certain station when she was writing or needed an idea for a story. She used to say that a song came on just when she needed it to, and sometimes she would stay up all night, just hoping to hear that one little lyric that might spark her next plot.

Out of everything that's happened to him in the last year or so, his wife was his biggest grief of all.

**"_...And I lie awake and miss you…"_**

The song had a sweet melodic tone to it, even though he could sense the sad deep longing in the lyrics.

**_"…I'll miss your arms around me  
I'd send a postcard to you, dear  
Cause I wish you were here…"_**

Jane thought about all the countless night he had stayed, lying awake, reminiscing on the moments he and his wife had created. They remained locked up in his mental vault, right along with the countless emotions he refused to show. He emerged himself in the memory of his forgotten family…

**_"…Because it takes two to whisper quietly…"_**

_…So innocent and pure, so full of life and joy…_  
_  
"**The silence isn't so bad**  
**'Til I look at my hands and feel sad**  
**'Cause the spaces between my fingers**  
**Are right where yours fit perfectly**  
_

_…she never yelled…always was home with a smile on her face…_

**_I'll find repose in new ways  
Though I haven't slept in two days  
'Cause cold nostalgia  
Chills me to the bone_**

_"'Daddy, come see…'"_

__

**"…I'll sit on the front porch all night**  
**Waist-deep in thought because**  
**When I think of you I don't feel so alone…"**

_"'Don't I look pretty, Daddy?'"_

**"…I don't feel so alone, I don't feel so alone…"**

_"Patrick?"_

_"Yes?"_

**_"...As many times as I blink_**  
**_I'll think of you tonight_**  
**_I'll think of you tonight..._**

_"I love you. You've help me grow in ways I never thought possible and I'll never forget you."_

_"Thank you…"_

He hadn't realized that he had answered out loud, but he did feel the stream of tears, running down his face. It hurt to think of them again, but it was good pain, a living pain. It was the pain that told you that you were still feeling and your soul wasn't completely gone.

__

**"...And I'll forget the world that I knew**  
**But I swear I won't forget you**  
**Oh, if my voice could reach**  
**Back through the past**  
**I'd whisper in your ear**  
**Oh darling, I wish you were here..."**

And Patrick Jane, the man who can hide behind the mask of pride and stubbornness, living out his lifelong masquerade, was reduced to sobbing. The tears stained his clothes, making dark indigo marks on his clothes. He put his hands over his face to prevent the mask from cracking.

And the taunting red face, with the triumphant glare, glowed that red glow that never seemed to go away, and it watched the scene taking place below it. It watched the tears stream through his hands.

Tears that only come with the loss of someone you can never forget, no matter how much you try.

Tears that only came when the black ghosts and stained memories came back to haunt you once more.


End file.
